


stitch me back together (life can't carry on)

by thevodkathief



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alexis | Quackity Needs a Hug, Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Gaslighting, Gen, Ghosts, Hallucinations, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Possession, Torture, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, Unresolved Sexual Tension, butcher army arc, glatt, he's not doing well guys, no respawn, perma-death, sbi bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:14:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29186880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thevodkathief/pseuds/thevodkathief
Summary: After Schlatt's funeral, Quackity has been acting off.As the day of Technoblade's excecution approaches, it only gets worse.(Or. Eating the heart of a dead, alcoholic asshole might not have been his best idea)
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity/Jschlatt, Gen - Relationship, can be read as - Relationship
Comments: 5
Kudos: 78





	1. Chapter 1

The room was tense. Most of the butcher army did not truly believe they would be able to capture Technoblade and come out still standing. Ranboo and Fundy stand to the side of an old, converted spawner room, leaning up against the damp mossy stone of the ramshackle dungeon. In the centre of the room sits an iron chair, bolted to the floor, there would be no half measures taken when dealing with this prisoner. Bound and gagged to the chair sits Technoblade, cape and crown missing, thrown in a pile to the corner to the room, royal garb torn in a few places. The rings and ornaments that once hanged from his tusks ripped and scattered. In front of his heaving form, stands Quackity, a jittery twitching to his fingers. "you always think you can get away with it", "you think you can kill and maim in the name of 'anarchy' and that you can walk out and retire after, like some fairy-tale ending." 

"I don't think that, but you do. Why are you shaking Quackity? Unless, even as I am bound you still know I'm more dangerous than you will ever be." There was some knowledge in his words, a smugness in the curl of his lips, a sureness in his posture that juxtaposes his less than regal image. "I've been busy in my retirement, but I've heard you've become the child-presidents second. Second fiddle to an inexperienced youth playing at power? that tracks." 

Ranboo sinks down a bit further behind Fundy as both listen to the argument. Quackity's trembling, hidden as it was behind bravado, increases in intensity. His head feels heavy, fogged with anger and repressed envy. 

Quackity recalls something Schlatt had said, what seemed like years ago, after he ‘interrogated’ a suspected traitor. “Weakness will never inspire fear Q, that’s why someone like you could never be cut out for these things” the vice pauses in his walk and asks “’these things’ sir?”. “Power of course. Could you imagine, flatty patty trying to intimidate someone? Ha! I hav’ta write that one down.” The president responds, whispering the last part seemingly to himself. “Get me a drink Q. Get me another suit as well, this one’s ruined.” He’s never been as sure-footed as Wilbur, or as self-assured as Schlatt, but they're not here anymore. How strong could someone be if they died of their own shortcomings? 

"You don't know what the hell you're talking about. I earned my position, clearly I’ve been doing something right if I can keep you down." 

"For now." Technoblade dips his head and tilts it, his smirk becoming more pronounced as a plan starts to form. "Face it Quackity, Schlatt kept you around, for entertainment if you ask me. The child will surely realize in time just how little you offer." 

“Schlatt would have been NOTHING without me!” Quackity is getting desperate to maintain control over the room. A nagging, buzzing sound crescendos just behind his temple and he brings his hand to rub at his eyes, a figure flickers in and out of sight next to him, intangible and familiar. 

Ever the devil on his shoulder it seems, even in death. 

_Who the fuck does he think he is, speaking to youme like that?_

Quackity could picture the lecherous grin that would accompany those words, an omen of broken bones soaked in the fumes of alcohol and smoke that followed Schlatt as a companion would. “Leave me alone.” A quiet plea, edged with longing like poison on a blade, echoes in the quiet room. “Us?” asks Ranboo, seemingly eager to leave the oppressive atmosphere of the interrogation that so far has been nothing more than a trade of insults. 

Fundy’s eyes narrow and his tail shifts downwards ever so slightly, somethings been...something. With the vice. Ever since Schlatt’s funeral Quackity has reeked of death and cigarette smoke, apparent to his delicate nose. “Losing it without someone to tell you how to live, Q?” Techno’s voice is mocking, drawing out the old nickname in a sugary sweet tone, an unsettling difference to his usual monotone. “Step outside, both of you.” 

“I don’t think that’s-” “now.” Fundy had heard that tone before, dripping with intent and leaving no room for argument, he had hoped he’d never hear it again. Ranboo hurries out of the room, Fundy following at a more sedated pace, one final glance at the vice president who has stilled, eyes on Techno yet keeping a vacant stare. 

The spectre/ghost/hallucination’s (did it really matter what it was that he kept seeing more and more frequently after the funeral? -after he played grave robber) hand curled around Quackity's throat, reminiscent more of a viper than a livestock animal. He could almost feel the perfectly manicured nails digging slightly into the feather-lined column of his throat. _Ever the critic, that one. You’ve seen me do it, Q. Now I want you to do it. Make. It. Hurt._

Quackitys eyes glaze over slightly, tinted with a toxic colour that glows a hazardous, insidious yellow. His posture draws open, inviting in the way that a hunter is before an unknowing prey. He wonders if this is how _he_ felt on that podium after the election, like a predator, a conman, a winner. “Funny you should mention it, t e c h,” Quackity annunciates each syllable, mimicking Technoblades earlier voice, “because it seems that these days the blood god is rather...mortal.” 

_game_

“I mean, who would have thought you'd be sold out by your own father? one after the other each one has betrayed you Techno. For Someone who fancies himself a god, you sure do leave yourself open to betrayal often.” Techno jerks forward in his restraints, the leather creaking under his strength. 

_Set_

“What did you do to Phil?” Techno asks, commands really, so rude. “Oh, I didn’t do anything. He did though, told me all about where to find your little hide away.” 

“Turns out when you give a grieving father the opportunity to visit his exiled son to his heart's content, his other, more violent, less obedient son becomes... less important.” 

_match_

Techno stills, a flash of pain passing through his eyes before they harden again. “Liar.” _Of course, but try to find out about what part. I_ want _to see you_ burn. “Is it so hard to believe. It's amazing that you keep trying, maybe I should start calling you Sisyphus.” Technoblades eyes burn with hatred, _look further_ , a festering wound sits under that hate. Infected and oozing as the result of his family's astounding lack of loyalty. The nails caress; gentle and loving, seems more tangible. _Drown in me, mi corazón._

In the weak light of the dungeon, Quackity’s pupils seem to collapse and lengthen sideways, almost resembling a ram’s distinctive eyes. The effect is gone in the next second, Techno tries to convince himself he imagined it, yet the gaze makes him shiver anyway. 

“Nothing else to say huh. Face it, you have no one left to-” **_SLAP_** The sound echoes in the confined space. “LOOK AT ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU.” 

Techno’s head, previously scanning for an escape route, jerks to the side. Time stands frozen. No one breathes. _Count._ One breath, two, three. And the blood god, falls. 

It finally proves one betrayal to many, one wound left untended to seeping into healthy tissue until his faith is left as nothing but a core of maggots and festering disease, rotting him from the inside out. His eyes shut tight, tremors wracking the infallible frame of the blood god. Not a sound escapes him, a final rebellion, his last shred of dignity, something he clings to as a lifeline in an ocean pulling him down into the depths. It looks “ _pathetic_ ”. ‘How's that for weak, Schlatt?’ He receives no answer except the echo of an amused breath on the back of his neck. 

Barely aware of his own limbs, Quackity pulls out his sword. Not a word is spoken as he lifts it gently, a ghostly hand on his, guiding him as he so often needs, and brings it down into the meat of Technoblade’s thigh. Techno lets out a squeal of pain. It feels surprisingly good, Quackity reflects. Having the blood god, usually so defiant, brought down like any other obstacle in _his_ path. Blood pools in the wound and starts to drip down the leg of the chair. “Do I have your attention now, **pig**?” Quackity’s voice echoes unsettlingly. A laugh escapes the vice, chocked and forceful, full-bodied. It cuts abruptly, the strings cut and the presence no longer behind his eyes or on his neck. Quackity straightens out, removes the sword, smooths out his apron- considerably more bloodied than before- and walks to the door. 

“Get things ready for the execution tomorrow. Make sure the guards are trustworthy. No one goes in or out until tomorrow, got it?” 

Twin replies of “Yes sir” and Quackity is halfway out the door.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> short filler before the execution.

The door reverberates at the force of the slam as Quackity makes it back to his house. Not a house really, more a cottage on the side of the Whitehouse. Close enough to be a few minutes trip to the oval office. Easier to get to work, always on the clock, on a whim. 

Quackity falls backwards, wings hitting the door painfully, though the sensation is dull and distant. As he slides down onto the floor, he lets out a long sigh. Filled with both fatigue and regret, his mind races. jumping from place to place, never quit settling. What was that? He had seen him/it before. Out the corner of his eye and always in the distance. Was he going crazy? It may not have been the best decision to eat his...the...what did he do? _You never did think things through, aren't you damn lucky to have me?_

Quackity looks up, then left to right. Scans over the kitchen and the living room, the stairs and the corridor. Nothing. Everything is just as he left it. Plate still in the sink, a beanie on the table. Nothing is here. 

“I'm imagining it. I have to be” why would he even follow Quackity. Hes just the second in command. Always running after power and settling for second place. And to think he thought himself ambitious, ready to do whatever it takes. “now Q you know I'm the only one who can say those things”. A double take, and Hes there. Flickering in and out, not the fluid apparition of Ghostbur, he seems more tangible, his oppressive aura the same as ever. 

Quackity always admired him for his presence, never overlooked or forgotten in a crowd. It's still the same, and damn him, Quackity has never managed to keep his eyes on anything else. “still trying to control me, huh. Your, you’ve been, I mean-” “You had a lot more to say at my funeral Q, what's with the cold shoulder? Moved on already have you?.” It was followed by a look, a glare? It's always been difficult to pin down his expressions, always changing as they were. “d-dead. Your dead Schlatt” same old foolish courage. 

“you've lost everything, the presidency, your power and your life. I bet the only thing you miss are your stupid cigarettes.” A pause, “don't forget my whiskey, if I were still alive, I'd have _killed you_ for breaking it all,” a chuckle, lacking humor with a sharp edge to it, Quackity knew that he’d be mad. Quackity could picture it, a joke, a wink. A hand on his shoulder, digging into the joint of his wing. Into the office and then, and only then, would the smile drop. Quackity shivers for a second and stands up. Squares his shoulders and speaks, lowly to the quiet house, “figured you wouldn't need them, really helped me blow of some steam ya know? Was relaxing.” A hum “I bet.” 

Schlatt moves forwards not taking a single step but ends up right in front of Quackity’s face. A smile, poisonous and beckoning in the worst way. “stalling is for the stupid, Q.” Voice consoling and gentle, hurtful without even trying. 

“I think I preferred you dead.” 

“you don't mean that. You and I remember? The election? We’ve always been better together. Your just confused, it was quite the show you put on back there, your tired after it all.” The reminder of his actions almost brings Quackity back down to his knees, “proved you wrong didn't it?” 

The smile gets a bit smoother, the curved edge of a blade, no less sharp but can fool you into thinking otherwise. “That it did Q, you did so well. Didn’t it feel right? Who knew you could be selfish?” Quackity thinks back to the sound of pain Technoblade gave out, sweeter validation there couldn't be. “it wasn't- I was just doing it for the country. Hes on the hitlist I-” Cracking glass, fracturing and grinding against other shards. The sound seems to emanate from his temple, drilling into his skull so harshly he ,just, stops himself from wincing. “So, you didn’t feel better. So, your heart didn’t race with adrenaline and instead all you felt was duty?” 

Quackity wanted to backtrack, lying to Schlatt never ended well for him. His throat constricts instead, and he stares, helpless. Quackity wonders what Schlatt sees in his eyes. After all this time he could never bring himself to hate, nor fear. Terrible life choice if you asked anyone but it kept Schlatt from tiring of him. 

“I'm sorry.” was all he could bring himself to say. He didn’t even really ask about Technoblade’s plans or allies in a supposed interrogation. What sick motivation brought him here? How did he think he could do this all himself? 

“you just needed some direction, do better next time.” The smile returned, gentle and accepting. Quackity can only nod (the lamb led to slaughter never knows till the end), “yes sir.” 

“Now that’s what I like to hear!” “So, an execution. Tell me about it, I'll fix whatever it is they’ve missed.” Quackity gulps and starts speaking, the image of Schlatt stops flickering and his grin looks like it should tear at the ram hybrid’s skin.


	3. Chapter 3

Technoblade has done many things in his life, before the SMP. Claiming his place as the victor in the potato war was only a highlight in his long list of accomplishments (his undefeated streak on some of the other servers helped bolster his ego significantly). He, unlike some others who spent all their time on one server, was no stranger to the respawn mechanic that made the games possible and functioned as a tool for his climbing success. The echo of cheers and the screams of others' failure grew almost louder than the voices sometimes. Indeed, he was a warrior, in every way that mattered. He shouldn’t be afraid; he won’t _allow_ it. He is the victor, the blood god, better than anyone, and pvp champion. 

And yet. In that drafty cold cell. He...faltered. Fell from grace (as far as he can stretch that metaphor). Quackity was twisted. Wrong. For the first time HE was pinned under the gaze of a hunter. It was contained chaos, visceral and corrupt. He could have sworn for a second he saw Schlatt in front of him, taunting, whispering, and goading. But that was impossible. The rules of this server were plain. Once you were in, that’s it. No respawn and no leaving until dream deemed it so (Ghostbur being the obvious exception, leave it to Wilbur to somehow defy the rules of the server he lived in). It had sounded like an interesting challenge, easy enough. He had thought so, now he just had to hold out hope that he’d make it out alive. 

So Schlatt was dead. Irrevocably. But there was something to Quackity that didn’t seem right, that sent every instinct he had on alert and the voices clamoring to be heard. _Escape. It's Schlatt! Get away. Find Phil. But didn’t he betray you?_

That last one had him pause; the cacophony drowned out to a null. Phil. He didn’t want to believe it, that the only one left, the only one who hadn’t taken, hadn’t expected more, would tell them where to find him. But how could they have found out where to look? Would it really be that much of a stretch to think? After all, he didn’t see Tommy's betrayal coming, or the others from Pogtopia. Was he really that gullible, so trusting as to align himself with those that would give him up for a dime? 

His spiral was interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Technoblade stilled his tremors, no more weakness would be allowed. And yet the voice he heard was almost enough to send him over the edge of the abyss back into rage (or had it always been despair?) “Tech? Are you okay? I could only get a few minutes here. Had to pull some favours with the guards.” 

Coming to a halt before him was Philza. He looked tired; his nails were bitten to the quik. His torn wing hanged a bit lower than the other one. A marked reminder of his first failure, his first son. _Traitor. Betrayer. Hear him out. Kill him! Listen._ “Was it worth it? Leading them to me?” Phil seemed to stagger at the accusatory tone, so tenuous and trembling that Techno had to clear his throat before continuing. “I thought... out of everyone. I thought you wouldn’t betray me.” 

“Tech- I. you’re my son- I would never.” Phil gathered his thoughts, and after a few silent seconds, he spoke again. “I didn’t have a choice.” The words seemed to hurt as they were said, an admission of guilt. At least on the surface. Shouldn’t Phil have tried harder to keep the compass? Didn’t that count as a failure to Techno? A betrayal. It did to Phil at least. 

Techno’s trembling ceased immediately. His mind, for the first time in a long time, was completely silent. A confession. He didn’t want to believe whoever Quackity had become. His words were cherry picked to hurt, to bury into his doubts and widen them to a chasm. But is seemed like he was the only one who didn’t lie to him. Out of spite maybe? Why lie to someone you're planning to kill anyway? 

“Leave.” The word echoed around the cell, quiet and yet deafening in its meaning. 

“Tech- listen. We need to plan your escape. There isn't time to talk about this now.” A sharp knock punctuated his words. From outside the iron door came a muffled “five minutes.” 

“I can get myself out, traitor. You’d just tell them all about it anywa-y.” His voice cracked on the last word. Still processing... grief? Was it? That sounded right. “I was born in the nether, Phil. No matter how much you want to pretend otherwise, I will always be someone who thrives in blood and fire. Facing death is the average Tuesday and yet I always win!” Technoblade was heaving heavy breaths by the end, Phil looked aghast. “Just...leave Phil. I don’t need your help, look at what happened to Wilbur after all your ‘help’.” 

The words were venomous and hasty, like a cornered animal lashing out wildly at anything in striking distance. Tears were forming in Phils eyes, how could it have come to this he wondered. A staggering breath and Phil dragged his arm across his face, eyes hardening, and mind made up. “After all I’ve sacrificed for you, for the good of this land. You’d cut me off for this. I told you I didn’t have a choice!” Technoblade’s anger had run dry, and cold weariness had taken its place. 

“Yeah, it's not a choice. After everything he’s done, Tommy is still the better son after all.” “That's not! -” “Younger, still hope for him to be something better than your two eldest.” Before anything else can be said, Punz opens the door. “Times up Phil, change of the guard is soon and you have to get out of here.” Phil doesn't move to leave, only stares at techno as if only seeing him for the first time, a stranger instead of a son. It stings if Techno is honest. But the hurt of betrayal still rattles in his bones, still burns in his blood and rings in his ears. As Punz pulls the prone man before him out of the room by his arm Techno whispers out a ~~goodbye~~ sentence.

“A kingdom that has once been destroyed can never come again into being; nor can the dead ever be brought back to life.” 

The door closing sounded final, an epitaph to the family that once was. Scattered and torn apart. _The plan. How could he? Get Phil back. Get out of here. Still have it?_

Techno shifted in his bindings. Feeling the presence of a small wooden carving in a pouch hidden up in one of his puffy sleeves. He remembers its glowing green eyes and the last resort that it carries, his last chance of escape. 

A hand on his shoulder seemed to guide Quackity for the rest of the preparations, with a few alterations to the plan. Schlatt seemed confident about it. 

Quackity couldn't feel his suit against his skin (Schlatt’s idea, _that Halloween costume makes you look childish. We're not playing games q, we are better._ ) or the breeze against his neck. He felt floaty, detached. It felt like those first few moments at the cemetery, when he ate that heart. Pure ecstasy and fulfillment. All he could feel in that moment was the phantom sensation of nails raking across the back of his neck, softer than silk and sharper than needles. A dichotomy of pain, longing, fear, gratitude, that wouldn't leave him be. It made the touches of the ghoul...confusing. (Always there, to keep him focused, present). Quackity doesn't quite feel like himself these days. Theres a distant echo of panic ringing in the back of his head, warning him of something. Inevitably, there would then be a hand on his shoulder, head, neck to bring him out of it. 

Things felt fragile. One wrong word, look, comment. And Schlatt would leave him behind again. It would all come crashing down and he’d be alone. Again. He swore to himself it wouldn't happen. The empty house, the empty silence, the empty time spent on nothing he could be proud of. The silences were the worst. They used to be filled up with something, better or worse, yelling or inside jokes, a backhand to his cheek or a quiet encouragement. Surely that was better than a chronic emptiness in his chest and every time he would look to someone who wasn't there. It would be worse cruelty than even Schlatt would be capable of, to fill those silences once again with direction and purpose only to take it back. No. He would make sure whatever was keeping Schlatt here wouldn't change (weren't they a part of each other now anyway? A fucked up other half? It made sense. _My heart, mi corazón._ ) 

“Are you okay Quackity?” Fundy looked suspicious, he always looked like that, but there was also worry in his lowered eyes. “Ah the traitor fox! Hes looking for weakness q. Always ready to turn with the tide, no loyalty. The dirty mongrel.” Schlatt’s sneering voice seemed clearer than before, not coming from by his ear, more like in his mind. “Quackity? Hello? I asked if you're okay. You’re bleeding!” His hand raised to his nose, swiping underneath, his fingers came back bloodied. Thick and clotted blood in a dark red- almost black- color. He stared at it for a moment, took out a handkerchief and cleaned the partially dried blood off as best as he could. “Of course I'm okay, don’t ask stupid questions!” Quackity’s voice came out as a hiss, low and accusing. It didn’t even register that he’d spoken until after he saw Fundy’s expression darken, his tail swishing slower than before. “Did you at least finish with the extra precautions I told you about?” 

“yeah, I thought we were already being careful enough but hey, you’re the boss.” It sounded low and sarcastic to his ears, clearly just indulging him. 

_Hit him._

The thought came to him abruptly, calm and measured as if it's just a comment about the weather, yet completely overwhelming. The idea was enticing, it would finally remind that damn vermin of his place. It was foreign but the idea was taken almost immediately as his. After all, didn’t he want to prove himself? No one respects him as he is now, just a fucking _joke_ pretending to have his shit together. 

The anger reared up like a tidal wave, all in a split second –to fast to all be completely his own- and crashed down before he could even think. A hand reached up to Fundy’s fur-tipped ear, and pulled. Fundy bent almost double with a short yelp, more like a squeak. “You're getting awfully mouthy with me Fundy. You’re real cocky for a traitorous, furtive little orphan, aren't ya?” Another tug and Fundy stopped writhing. Completely still and barely even breathing as a hand that shouldn’t really be that strong held him in place. It sounded...wrong. To hear something so cruel from Quackity in a voice unlike his own, accent shifting to something horrifically familiar and eyes that seemed to ooze hate and mirth into the air like a miasma. Another pull, harder this time, broke him from the moment and tore a whimper from his mouth, he could feel the cartilage in his ear begin to crack and his skin tear as it split open from the force. His ear burned in a stinging pain reminiscent of rope burn on an open wound. Quackity saw blood begin to bead and then pool, matting a few hairs at the base of Fundy’s ear. _Not a joke now, am I?_

It ended almost as fast as it began. Letting go of Fundy, Quackity smoothed out his suit and went to run a hand through his hair before stopping at the edge of the beanie. His movement aborted and he seemed to twitch for a second before he looked back to Fundy with a friendly expression, open and exuberant. As if Fundy had just done something amusing instead of insulting. Holding a hand to his head and holding back a cry, Fundy violently flinched as Quackity’s hand came down on his shoulder and tugged him forwards. “I forgive you Funds, I know you have trouble with acting out sometimes. Maybe it's genetic?” Hand tightening and yet his smile gave nothing away, Fundy’s heart raced and the urge to lower his eyes proved to be too powerful to suppress. Quackity’s face was still and pulled into a condescending smile. It was like a mask, one that rendered him as helpless and trapped as a rabbit in a fox's teeth. 

“R-right. I, um. Schla- Quackity.” Fundy trembled and fumbled over his words, not finding purchase in this new dynamic that seemed to form overnight. 

“It seems a perfect day for an execution. Don’t you think?” Clear sky and a slight breeze carrying the scent of honey and cut grass. Picturesque, serene as a postcard and exactly the kind of day for Quackity to prove himself to...to...to himself of course. Schlatt was just helping him achieve his true worth. Make him better. _Aren't you glad you have him?_

“What?” 

“That means go get Technoblade to the stage Fundy.” He runs to the cells in a blur of orange, eager to escape with both his ears still at least semi-attached. He couldn't stop thinking as he ran. Did he really take after his father that much? He liked to think he followed orders. His move with the torch and the flag seemed like a good idea at the time. 

It had a bitter sort of irony, that the only thing he inherited from his dad, the founder of L’manberg, was a destructive habit. 

Quackity glances at Schlatt beside him. He looked approving, or was it smug? It was getting only slightly easier to read the hybrid, ever the mercurial personality. Posture perfect and eyes brighter than they ever were in life. The image of a king keeping his court comes to Quackity and he huffs out a laugh, picturing Schlatt in anything other than his almost always pristine suit seemed ludicrous, never mind a royal regalia like the clothes that Techno Favours. “Ever thought of getting a cape?, it would make you look like less of a lawyer.” His question seems to startle Schlatt. After regaining himself, he scowled at the giggling Quackity, though mirth and ...amusement? were dancing in his eyes. 

If anyone had been in the area, they would have heard one side of their bickering, lasting all the way along the path to the stage. The only ones along the unkempt dirt path inlaid with poppies that meandered around more than one creeper hole. The gentle rush of the river running by, Quackity’s voice and the call of distant birds being the only accompaniment to the sound of a. Single, Fervent, Heartbeat.


End file.
